


Feet of Clay

by TheDVirus



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brain Damage, Character appropriate violence, Enemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feels, Holding Hands, Kissing, M/M, Recovery, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 20:26:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDVirus/pseuds/TheDVirus
Summary: Riddler, despairing at the loss of his intellect decides to take matters into his own hands. Oswald gets in the way.A oneshot requested by @buntesfuenkchen with some elements inspired by @baskervilleshund





	Feet of Clay

Ed flicks through the book again as he takes another pill to guard against the oncoming headache.  
He tries to read another riddle, squinting as the words seem to ripple on the page.  
The brewing answer in his brain slips away like a fish upstream, salmons swim upstream for mating season, ‘cold fish’ is a phrase for someone who does not share their feelings, penguins eat fish-

Ed snaps the book shut.  
Too many questions and all the wrong answers.  
He doesn’t need questions in the book when the answers in his head just will not stop going round and round like a locomotive which is a train which can be derailed hence train of thought which is crashing into the car on the tracks and Isabella is screaming and-  
He throws the book across the room and shouts in wordless frustration.  
He needed the answer ‘train’ ten minutes ago!

He gasps as he feels his head pulse and rubs his temples to try and quell it.  
Maybe just maybe the gentle pressure of his fingertips will help stimulate his brain back to full operating capacity, acupuncture does that for muscles after all, Myrtle put needles in his arms which had helped with his recovery but he should have killed her, she’s a loose end, loose ends go into needles, sewing needles, should’ve sewn her lips shut-

Ed staggers to his feet and dusts himself off. He has been sitting on the floor in the lotus position to calm himself. To try and focus.  
But now his legs (already unsteady and cold), feel like a newborn giraffe’s, tallest land animal in the world, tongue measuring 18-20 inches long, four stomachs…

As if on cue, his own stomach roils and he staggers drunkenly to the kitchen sink.  
He retches and spits before wiping his mouth with his sleeve.  
He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the vertigo to cease. He shivers and feels sweat cooling on his brow. He hasn’t slept in two days.  
He’s had enough downtime.  
Turning on the tap, he splashes some of the water into his face as the sink is cleansed of the bile.  
Even though the building is due to be condemned, they still haven’t shut off the water.  
Perhaps in a little while he would see if the shower was working.  
But, when was his last meal?  
He hadn’t eaten the soup Myrtle had brought him, not trusting her not to medicate it. He didn’t need medicine. He wasn’t sick. He had never been sick in his life. He’d been in the hospital plenty of times but he had never been sick. Not defective! It wasn’t his fault!  
They were all wrong even though they all thought they knew best: his teachers, the other kids, the doctors, his mother, his fath-

He sways slightly as his stomach aches.  
Five months Myrtle had said.  
Five months was a long time not to eat anything.  
He should be hungry.

‘I should be dead’, he muses aloud and almost jumps at the sound of his own voice.

It sounds strange to him. Like someone else is talking.  
It’s nothing new. He remembers the ‘other him’ goading him, taunting him.  
Why did nobody ever encourage him except Os-  
His eyes drift to where his bed had once stood.  
The only furniture left in the apartment is his couch and the inbuilt kitchen fixtures. He doesn’t know where everything else is.  
Maybe Myrtle has been here with those manicured sticky fingers poking and prodding in the dark, dirty corners, taking what she wanted, like a thieving magpie, the bird not the piece of music.  
Ed has only one thing left now.

He still has _their_ -his special knife.  
He takes it out of his pocket and examines it. It’s been with him since the beginning.  
There’s still a stain on the apartment floor where Leonard bled out.  
Oswald had cut a large vein in his neck (Ed couldn’t remember what it was called but knew he should) and Leonard had died gurgling and legs twitching like a frog with an electric current running through it, which had been on the biology test that Myrtle had cheated on in elementary school by looking at his paper.  
He had seen her looking so why had he let her?  
That was cheating.  
Cheating wasn’t right. You didn’t learn anything by cheating.  
His father had hated cheating.

‘But I didn’t cheat’, Ed says, ‘I know I didn’t’.

It had taken hours of practice to solve the puzzle in that school competition and win that book voucher.  
His father had torn it up when Ed had shown it to him.  
He didn’t know why.  
Parents were supposed to be happy when you did well.  
Ed always got gold stars but his father saw this as a prompt to make him see very different stars.  
His father had ranted at him as he had shook him, calling him ‘cheater’ but also demanding to know how he had cheated.  
He hadn’t cheated. He had practiced. It was different.  
And yet somehow, watching the fragments of his hard earned prize drift to the floor, Ed had doubted himself.  
Had he cheated somehow?  
If he had won fair and square then why was his father getting so angry?  
It hadn’t made any sense.

Ed walks over to the riddle book and dusts it off.  
He clutches it to his chest like a childhood toy and can feel his racing heart pulsing through it.  
He remembers books being slapped out of his hands, homework kicked into puddles, broken glasses-

 _‘Whaddya call lookin’ at the answers in that book huh?’_

Ed’s grip on the book tightened as he flinched, his father’s voice ringing in his ears like an alarm bell.  
He had not been cheating! He had been checking his answers!

 _‘How you supposed to be 'The Riddler' when ya can’t even answer any riddles?! What’s the point in that stupid Halloween costume if you can’t be who you’re supposed to be?!’_

Ed tried to use his usual coping mechanism.  
It had served him well all these years, any time his doubts reared their head like an angry snake hissing with his father’s voice.  
He tries to come up with three different applicable answers to a riddle.  
But nothing comes to mind.  
Instead his father’s voice gets louder.

 _‘Always thought you were better than your old man didn’t you? A special little snowflake!’_

Ed’s thoughts are becoming more frenzied now as he can feel the numerous long healed scars pulse and burn like filthy leeches writhing beneath his clammy skin.  
A snowflake, an individual who looks like everyone else, normal but alone in a crowd, alone and freezing, catching snowflakes on his tongue, the ice frosting over his teeth and making his gums bleed as the ‘freeze gun’ had been fired, the falling rain turning into snow around him as he had screamed-

 _‘Well where did that getcha Eddie?! Huh?! Ya let that little homo freak run circles round ya! Ya like bein’ his bitch?! If I’d’a known you’d grow up to be a faggot, I’d’a disowned ya. Hell, if I had I might still be alive’._

Ed sees the memory unfold in his mind like an old projector: flickering and blurry.  
The blood is the only splash of colour as it spreads across the wooden floor of his parent’s kitchen. His father is leaning against the cupboards, a gaping hole in his throat, eyes rolling back as his yellowed fingers go slack and fall into his lap.  
Ed has killed him.  
His mother is huddled in a foetal position in the corner, her eyes bloodshot as she cries, cuts and bruises on her pale skin from where his father has been hurting her. She doesn’t look at Ed but she flinches and cries out when he tries to hug her.  
In that moment Ed realises his mother still loves his father, despite all the times he’d hurt them and he realises she knew. She knew all along that he was hurting Ed and did nothing.  
It doesn’t make any sense and Ed knows in that moment that it won’t be alright.  
Not ever again.

 _‘And worst of all, you still wanna take it up the ass from a little beak nosed freak like Penguin. Even after he screwed you over, you wanna screw him for real?!'_

‘I don’t! I hate him!’

 _‘Then why ain’t he dead yet?! I seen what goes on inside this thick skull of yours. All those dreams about him and that night in fronta that fire, you wanted a lot more than a hug. But then some blonde broad shows up and you oh-so-conveniently bury your dirty little feelings for him down dark and deep hopin’ nobody would ever find out so you could pretend to be normal. You know what that makes you Eddie? Apart from a liar and a moron?'_

Ed’s whole body is shaking. He’s biting his lip so hard he can taste blood.

His father’s voice quietens but does not grow any gentler.

 _‘Come on Eddie, I know you know this one’._

‘A coward’, Ed whispers, feeling shameful tears run down his cheeks.

 _‘Stop bein’ a coward son’_ , his father says, _‘Once in your life, make me proud o’ ya. What else are you livin’ for anyway?’_

‘How? How can I make you proud?’

Ed asks the question but he already knows the answer. The knife is still in his hand.  
It’s glowing green, catching the light from the toy factory sign outside.

 _‘You’re so smart, you figure it out’_ , his father’s voice echoes as it fades.

Ed gives a choked sob as he drops the riddle book.  
There’s only one thing left to figure out.  
He should know already but he can’t remember.  
Is it up or across?

He discards his jacket, folding it neatly.  
He plans to use it as a pillow afterwards.  
He rolls up his sleeve, the movement all too familiar, reminding him of his days in forensics. They seem so long ago now.  
Another life.  
He closes his eyes, trying to calm his heart rate.  
He’s not afraid.  
He’s not afraid.  
He doesn’t want to be afraid anymore.  
He feels the cool edge of the knife on his skin and-

‘Ed! No!’

Ed’s eyes snap open. The door flies open and he hears Oswald’s voice.  
He’s alone as he enters.  
He’s gasping and Ed remembers the lifts have been deactivated.  
Has he run all the way up here?  
Where are his cronies?  
Why isn’t he armed?  
Too many questions.

‘Oswald, how are you here?’ Ed asked, ‘I didn’t send you the last riddle. You’re not supposed to find me yet!’

Oswald ignores the question which makes Ed angry.  
He is approaching slowly, like someone trying to calm an angry dog.  
The thought reminds Ed of Oswald putting him on display in the Lounge which makes him angrier.  
He’s thinking about how it will be so much easier to use the knife on Oswald rather than his own skin.

‘Give me the knife Ed’, Oswald asks in a reasonable tone which makes Ed’s skin crawl, ‘Don’t make me take it from you’.

Ed spits at Oswald’s outstretched hand and wishes it was corrosive.

‘You’ve already taken the only thing that matters!’ he yells.

‘Ed-‘

‘Stop _calling_ me that! That’s not who I am!’

He sees Oswald’s mouth tighten.

‘You’re ill’, Oswald says in a deliberately calm voice.  
Ed can see anger warring with concern on his face.  
It looks like the expressions he used to see on the psychiatrist’s face and the same pointless platitudes are spilling from Oswald’s mouth.

‘You’re not thinking straight’, he’s saying, ‘Come with me and we’ll get you help-‘

Ed grabs a nearby broom left behind by a cleaner and smashes the window. He is gratified to see Oswald give a start at the sudden movement even as the energy required makes Ed’s head spin.  
Ed snatches up his jacket and holds the knife out as a warning.

‘I don’t need any help!’ he rails as he climbs out of the window onto the fire escape, ‘I’m not sick!’

He doesn’t wait for Oswald’s reply, instead fleeing to the roof rather than the safety of the street below. He laughs as he climbs, muscles burning all the way.  
Oswald will never expect him to escape this way!

 

Oswald is waiting for him when he reaches the roof but Ed is too proud to climb back down.  
How?!  
How did Oswald know he would come this way?

Oswald shakes his head at Ed’s frantic and dishevelled state.  
Ed seems confused to have encountered Oswald here despite Oswald watching him begin his climb up the fire escape.  
Why climb up if the goal was to escape?  
It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

‘What were you going to do with that knife?’ Oswald asks, careful to keep his tone conversational.  
If he distracts Ed with talking, hopefully he can lure him away from the precarious edge of the roof.

‘Don’t do that’.

Oswald blinks questioningly.

‘Don’t stand there and ask stupid questions!’ Ed elaborates, brandishing the knife, ‘I _hate_ stupid questions! Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Ed, just calm down-‘ Oswald begins, holding his hands up but Ed interrupts.

‘Wipe that pathetic pity off your face! I don’t want it and I don’t need it. Not from you, you sick, twisted _freak!’_

He smiles as he sees the barb hit home and Oswald’s restrained demeanour takes on a dangerous edge.

‘Don’t ever call me that’, he warns.

‘I call them like I see them!’ Ed snaps, advancing, ‘You put me on display like a caged animal and now you have the gall to act like you’re the injured party?! ‘Freak’ is too kind a word for what you are, you maladjusted, self-absorbed, preening little degenerate!’

He stops a few feet away from Oswald.  
There is silence for a moment. The only sounds are the distant noises of traffic below them and the nearby cooing of pigeons in their coop.

‘Such big words’, Oswald comments snidely, ‘Take you long to practice them?’

‘Took you long enough to find me. My riddles too challenging for you?’

‘I didn’t get any riddles’.

‘Yes you did! I made sure you did! How else did you find me?!’

‘You mean these?’

Oswald reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handful of paper scraps: a napkin, a receipt, a flyer, an envelope, all covered with untidy, childlike writing.

‘A bunch of poorly written, disconnected lines of gibberish that seem to sometimes include a random unrelated word in the question?’ Oswald continues, waving them like damning evidence.

Ed gives a compulsive exclamation as Oswald tears them up, the white fragments falling like snow.  
Like snowflakes.  
Ed watches his hard work blow away in the cold wind: the hours it had taken to write each one, the time he had laboured over each chosen word, the frustration he had felt at his unresponsive fingers and the hate when he had seen his childlike writing.

‘Odd choice of suicide note’, Oswald continues, oblivious, ‘As for finding you, I just thought about where I’d go if I were you. Just a hunch’.

Ed feels as if he is gazing down a dark tunnel at Oswald’s words.  
He opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish before he remembers penguins eat fish and snaps it shut.  
Ed is the predator here, not Oswald.

‘A hunch. A _hunch?!_ ’ he shouts, ‘They weren’t a suicide note! You were supposed to solve them and come here so I could kill you!’

Oswald’s shrug causes Ed’s hands to curl into fists. He feels the hilt of the knife imprinting his skin with its criss-cross pattern.  
Just another mark. Just another scar.

‘I know this is Gotham but, kinda hard to murder someone when you’re dead isn’t it?' Oswald says, 'A few seconds later and we wouldn’t be having this conversation would we?’ 

‘Maybe not’, Ed concedes, voice growing quiet and cold, ‘But I’m _never_ going back to that lounge’.

Oswald takes a step forward. He knows it’s a risky manoeuvre but he needs Ed angry and distracted.  
Ed is safely away from the edge.  
Now all that’s left is the knife.

‘I don’t need all of you Ed’, Oswald says snidely, ‘Maybe I’ll just mount your head on my wall. Donate what’s left of your brain to science’.

‘That’s it. No more riddles. I’m just going to kill you’.

‘Promises, promises’, Oswald laughs, ‘Then again third time’s a charm, right? _Riddler?’_

Oswald’s mocking use of his true name makes Ed lose all notion of restraint.  
Finally giving into the noxious furious cocktail inside him, he bellows with rage and charges Oswald.  
Oswald tries to dodge, eyes widening, unprepared for Ed’s speed but Ed just catches him.  
They slam against the pigeon coop.  
The birds wake up and begin to flap about frantically, aggravated by the fight going on outside.  
Ed slams Oswald’s back against the metal.  
Oswald grunts but grabs hold of Ed’s wrists. He tries to twist them but Ed spins, pulling him with him.  
They struggle back and forth, pulling and pushing in a tension filled dance.

‘Let go!’ Ed demands as he sees Oswald’s eyes are locked on the knife.

‘Why? You going to save me the trouble by opening your own wrists?!’

‘Stop pretending you care!’

‘I wish I didn’t!’ Oswald shouts, relinquishing his grip for just a moment to punch Ed in the face.

The gamble works and Ed’s grip loosens on the knife as he staggers back. He blinks away tears and adjusts his glasses. His cheek is burning where Oswald hit him and he tastes blood in his mouth again.  
It doesn't sting half as much as ed realising that Oswald pulled the punch.

‘I came here to make sure you were okay!’ Oswald cries, their- _Ed’s_ special knife held limply in his hand, ‘Is it so hard to believe that someone might give a damn about you?!’

‘You just want your trophy back!’ Ed snaps, spitting red tinged saliva out.

‘No! I just want _you_ back!’ Oswald retorts and cocks his arm back.

Ed realises Oswald is about to throw the knife off the roof and summons up every bit of anger fuelled energy he has.  
He bends his knees and leaps forward, tackling Oswald’s middle like a prize quarterback.  
He hears the light, metallic sound of the knife hitting the ground as they fall.  
The pigeon coop’s door is obliterated by their combined weights crashing into it at speed.  
Ed lands on top of Oswald whose back lands on top of the door.  
Pigeons surge past Ed as he begins to strike Oswald’s face even as Oswald tries in vain to rise and shield himself.  
Ed straddles him, the heady drunkenness of victory singing in his veins.  
Ed keeps punching Oswald, eyes wild and unfocused as Oswald’s face flickers between his father’s and his former friend’s.  
Nothing else matters, only finally being able to let his anger loose. No riddles, no fear, just simple, cathartic violence.  
His knuckles become bruised and all too soon, he’s too tired to continue.  
Oswald is glaring up at him from behind the single arm he has managed to free to shield his face.  
One eye is almost swollen shut and he’s gasping. There’s blood on his teeth, bleeding down from his reddened nose.

Ed gently, almost reverently, places both hands around Oswald’s neck.  
He doesn’t squeeze.  
Not yet.  
He needs to regain his strength.  
He wants to be composed for this moment.  
He’s thought about this for so long: Oswald beneath him, staring up at him.  
Adrenaline is flooding through his system mingling with a strange feeling of arousal as he gazes into Oswald's piercing eyes.

Oswald’s eyes are like shards of ice as he looks up at Ed, bruises already darkening the skin around them. His face shows more anger than fear or pain: Oswald was always better at masking weakness than Ed.  
Ed is startled to feel Oswald’s hands take hold of his hands around his neck.  
They don’t try to pry Ed’s fingers away.  
They feel warm and soft on Ed’s cold digits.

‘Go on then’, Oswald hisses, ‘Do what you should’ve done at the docks all those months ago’.

Ed knows he should.  
But he also knows what he truly wanted to do.  
He remembers Oswald begging for his life, pleading with Ed to love him.  
Ed remembers wanting to but also remembers justice needed to be served.  
So Ed had fulfilled his duty.  
Even though it had hurt.  
Yes, he’s often thought about having Oswald in this position.  
But not under these circumstances.  
He can’t help it.

‘We both know you want to’, Oswald challenges Ed defiantly, ‘Do it. Do it! _DO IT!’_

So Ed does.  
He does what he should have done before the docks.  
He does what he should have done in front of the fire all those months ago in Oswald’s mansion.  
What he wanted to do.

He feels Oswald freeze beneath him as Ed kisses him on the mouth.

Oswald’s lips are soft and his tongue is smooth as Ed entwines it with his own.  
Ed feels warmth suffuse his body.  
He can’t remember the last time he felt truly warm.  
He pulls back after a moment and sees his flushed cheeks reflected in Oswald’s widened, pale eyes.

‘I don’t understand’, Oswald says simply as Ed climbs off him.

‘Me neither’, Ed says and bursts into hysterical laughter.

As Oswald sits up slowly, wincing but face full of worry for Ed’s condition, Ed’s laughter segues into hoarse sobbing.  
His chest feels like it has a boulder behind the ribs.

‘Why?’ Ed chokes, ‘Why don’t I understand?!’

‘It’s true isn’t it?’ Oswald asks quietly, ‘What she said about your brain-‘

‘It’s malfunctioning’, Ed says, jabbing the side of his head, ‘I reach for answers but all I get is noise and- I wish-I _need_ someone to turn me off, rip the wires out and just..just _fix_ me’.

Oswald makes an odd, reaching gesture before pulling his hand back.  
Ed realises Oswald was trying to touch his shoulder before reconsidering.  
Ed wants to be touched.  
To be reassured.

‘What if-what if there’s no way to recover the data?’ Ed asks, biting his finger, ‘What if I’m stuck like this?! I _can’t_ be like this!’

This time, Ed feels Oswald’s hand on his shoulder and leans into it.  
He feels Oswald stiffen again but he does not pull away.

‘I’m so sorry Ed’, Oswald says sadly.

Ed takes deep breaths to calm himself.

‘Why didn’t you just kill me?’ he asks, feeling raw yet oddly cleansed, ‘It would have been easier. Faster. Instead here we are, the mighty Penguin and Riddler, covered in old feathers and bird poop’.

This time they both laugh, the absurdity of their ignominious situation thrown into sharp relief by the discarded feathers in each other’s hair and the musty smell of the coop.  
Gradually and naturally their laughter dies away.

‘I couldn’t bring myself to kill you’, Oswald says, conscious of how loud his voice seems in the enclosed space, ‘I-I still care about you’.

‘Don’t add to my indignity by lying Oswald. Please. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough’.

‘You know I’m not. Lying to you is what got us here in the first place. At the docks, I couldn’t kill you but I couldn’t let you go. I was selfish. I was so focused on what I wanted that I didn’t even think about the consequences. Seems you’re right. I don’t learn from my mistakes’.

‘So, what now?’ Ed asks.

Oswald picks up the more long-term implication of the question but chooses to focus on the immediate, practical answer.

‘First step I think is getting back on our feet. Okay?’

Ed nods and gestures for Oswald to rise first.  
Oswald gasps in pain as he rises and grips one of the nesting shelves.  
Ed quickly gets to his own feet and supports Oswald to a standing position.  
Once he’s sure Oswald can stand, he retrieves Oswald’s cane from outside and brings it to him.  
Oswald’s mouth is tight as he takes a few halting steps.  
Ed follows him out of the coop and apologises.

‘Sorry about your leg’.

‘Yes, well I’m sorry about Myrtle. She’s dead by the way’.

‘You seem to have a habit of dispatching women who get too close to me’.

Ed holds up a hand at Oswald’s stricken expression signalling he is not angry.

‘In this case I’m rather grateful’, Ed continues, ‘Seeing her attitude towards me cast a rather cringeworthy light on certain past events in this building’.

‘She didn’t hurt you did she?’

Ed is intrigued by the subtle anger in Oswald’s voice: had he been worried when he had discovered Ed missing?

‘Jut my pride. That seems to be becoming a habit too’, Ed says looking at his suit, ‘Now what?’

‘Depends. Are you going to try and hurt yourself again?’

Ed thinks for a moment before answering.

‘You said you want me back’.

Not daring to hope despite the hope in Ed’s own voice, Oswald simply says:  
‘It’s not about what I want’.

‘Did you mean it?’ Ed presses.

Oswald, seeing the borderline desperation in Ed’s face and wanting nothing more than to help him, takes his hand in reply.  
They stand on the edge of the roof, hand in hand, overlooking the city.  
Oswald squeezes Ed’s hand reassuringly.  
Ed gives a conspicuous sniff which Oswald tactfully ignores.

‘I don’t even know where to start’, Ed muses aloud, ‘How am I supposed to rebuild myself without a blueprint?’

‘How’d you do it the first time?’

‘I had a good teacher’.

Oswald blushes as he realises Ed means him.

‘I’m no stranger to rebuilding’, Oswald says easily, ‘Trust me, blueprints are overrated’.

‘Isn’t asking for help cheating?’

Oswald reaches up and plants a kiss on Ed’s cheek.  
He tastes the salt of Ed’s tears beneath his lips but as he pulls away, feels Ed’s mouth curl into a small, calm smile.

‘I won’t tell if you won’t’, Oswald promises, seeing the lights of the city reflect in Ed’s glasses like stars.


End file.
